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Janusz Woźniak is drunk when the news comes. He's drunk most of the day, for all of the news.
The bar he has chosen is small, crowded, and as far from the Vatican as possible. As far as Janusz managed to get, at least, after an unproductive morning walk through Tenuta di Tormarancia. He has never gone there before—never gone much of anywhere in Rome, really; his life confined to the Vatican for years.
The staff doesn't know him, nobody recognises him, and there's comfort in this anonymity. Without a cassock and with his pectorale traded for an unadorned silver cross on a short chain, he has passed for a polish tourist in every bar he has haunted during this conclave. He's unsure if such deception will need to be addressed in his next confession. The sin of self-pity, aggravated by many beverages (all above 12%) will have to come first.
Every seat in the bar is occupied. Some people stand or lean against the counter. Two enterprising souls brought in chairs from the terrace. All are riveted to the small TV screen, judiciously placed in a corner of the room and no doubt dedicated to football games.
Janusz is nursing a sgroppino, a terrible venetian speciality, lost somewhere on the spectrum stretching uneasily between desserts and cocktails. It isn't worth the vodka it is made with, which is exactly why he picked it: to be sure he doesn't drink himself under the table before the day's voting ends.
Really, it's a wonder that there's to be another round of votes at all.
The TV flashed for hours with images of the bombings. The blood on the pavement, the wounded staring blearily into the cameras, the billowing smoke... Janusz had drowned his tears and prayers in glass after glass, his only solace the confirmation that no cardinal had been harmed. Helicopter crews had followed the line of buses as they drove back to the Casa Santa Marta. Then the announcement had come that the cardinals were walking back to complete the vote interrupted by the attacks.
The news anchor had called it a show of valour and fearlessness, but to Janusz it said more about the iron grip Eminence Lawrence must have over the conclave. He couldn't imagine Bellini managing such a feat, or anyone else. Faintly, he wonders if he would emerge onto the balcony, clad in white, smiling tiredly at the crowd. Janusz wouldn't mind. Lawrence has always been easy to work with, a sensible man with a firm hand in all his dealings.
Janusz hopes he'll keep him on. He's drunk enough to cling to the idea. Drunk enough to think of his future duties without crumpling under the glass sharp pain of memories, still so fresh, so cutting, of the man he last performed those duties for.
That's how Janusz is—swaying slightly in his seat, cocktail glass sweating over his fingers, almost as profusely as he does over his own collar, his other hand toying mindlessly with his silver cross, his eyes unfocused and his thoughts jumping erratically over the many adjustments necessary for a Lawrence papacy—when the bar erupts into cheers and applause.
Janusz reels, his sgroppino sloshing over the grimy bistro table.
'Puoi crederci?' the man nearest him yells as he slaps him over the shoulder, sending even more cocktail overboard. He turns around to hoot at the TV without waiting for Janusz's opinion.
White smoke is coming out of the chimney. Habemus papam.
Janusz blinks at the screen blearily, unsure for a moment if his drunken fantasies of a pope Lawrence aren't bleeding into reality. But no, there's no name yet, no certainty. Only his delusions, and the feverish relief and raucous joy of the crowd. Nobody seems to care who it is, only that it is someone, and so soon, too.
Janusz lets go of his glass and leans deeper into his chair, a queer sort of dread closing his throat. If it is Tedesco—if the attacks allowed him to prevail... Sweat stings Janusz's eyes, and he fumbles awkwardly for his handkerchief. If Tedesco steps out on the balcony, he will need to seek counsel and find the best monastery for him to retreat to. Lawrence would help, wouldn't he? The Carthusians, perhaps, or the Augustinians. The idea of sharing dinner with Tedesco—of making his bed, of handing him the day's papers with his coffee, or sorting his appointments so he can dismantle everything the Late Holy Father accomplished... after all that dreadful man did—it turns Janusz's stomach. Or maybe it's the cocktail, after a dozen glasses of wine and spritz. Anyway, Tedesco wouldn't keep him around. He may be terrible, but he wouldn't be so cruel as to make them both miserable. Would he? Maybe the Franciscans?
Another round of cheers breaks Janusz out of his spiralling through the various mendicant orders. His hands shake and his tongue feels like a wad of cotton choking him, but he leans forward and looks up to the screen. He prays for God to grant him strength, a drunken, wordless plea.
The room quiets around him, a collective moment of shock, like a great beast sucking in its breath. Its exhalation comes with a flurry of questions.
Chi? Chi è questo? Lo conosci? Non era al telegiornale? Come si chiama? Da dove...?
Janusz knows. He staggers to his feet, Tedesco, Carthusians and Franciscans all forgotten. He feels himself sober up the way someone might breach water for a gulp of air. Relief floods through him from the head down, in shivers and tingles, swelling in his chest.
It's the young man. Benítez. In a simple white cassock, just like his predecessor, smiling and waving over St. Peter's square.
Their secret visitor, years ago, who had gripped Janusz's hands in earnest thanks as they entered through the staff door of the Casa Santa Marta. The young priest with scars across his back, calluses on his palms, and dark rings under his eyes, who helped Janusz set the table and clear the dishes, and made the Holy Father laugh like few others ever could.
The sweetest soul, he'd called him after his second visit. Then, having signed the papers that would make him a cardinal In Pectore, the Holy Father had pressed the letter in Janusz hands and said, You'll have to look out for him next time you see him, Janusz. Won't you do that for me?
He's out onto the street, stumbling over the uneven pavement. He may feel sober, but his legs disagree. What a fool, Janusz thinks. What little faith he'd had in his Holy Father! He must have known, must have planned it all. It would be just like him.
He had asked Janusz to look out for Benítez, and Janusz promised! He promised, and yet he got as far from the conclave as he could, and now he's swaying drunk all the way in Roma 70, looking for a bus and sending the world reeling with every turn of his head, when he should be at Benítez's side. The new pope, God bless his name, whatever it is.
He waves down a taxi and clambers in, not so drunk as to forget a quick thanks to the Lord above, looking out for his most hurried servants.
'To the Vatican,' he exclaims. 'Presto, per favore!'
'It won't be possible,' the driver says, turning around. 'Or not quick. The attacks—'
'Please, take me as close as you can,' Janusz asks. 'I will do the rest on foot if I must.'
'You and everyone else,' the man says with a shake of his head, but he starts the car and begins weaving through the overcrowded roman streets.
Janusz opens the window and leans out. The tepid afternoon air feels cool on his sweaty face. Distant sirens blend in with the calls of birds. For all the hardships to come, he's overwhelmed by a sense of calm and focus. For a moment there he'd lost his purpose. He has spent the past month adrift, confused, grieving without guidance. He'd been torn between conflicting orders from his superiors and uncertain of his fate.
He closes his eyes and recalls Benítez as a priest, making him tea after the Holy Father had gone to bed.
Green tea from Kabul, Kahwah, he'd called it, Best enjoyed with gur, but sugar will do. Back home we call gur piloncillo, my mother would use it to make tepache. It's nostalgic. A strange drink, to Janusz' polish sensibilities, but appealing. It was made all the sweeter by the good company. Benítez had shared tales of life in Baghdad and Kabul, and asked Janusz for advice on where to shop before his flight back. He needed ribbons and reams of cheap, colourful fabrics. The boys will make kites and the girls dolls, but if I can bring them glass beads I may become the most popular priest in the country. Not that I have a lot of competition.
The sweetest soul, indeed. Janusz smiles and wonders where in Rome he'll be able to find piloncillo.